Clinton’s Mandingo

Know Your Place…Boy!

In the latest fusillade of degradation and swill coming out of Camp Clinton the nation’s foremost fucked-up couple has been pushing for Barack Obama to fall into line and accept a slot as the Queen’s running mate. This is all about the white woman on top though because let’s face it the Clintons are the plantation masters and an Obama Vice Presidency would be more the norm of attending state funerals and serving mint juleps to the gentry than exercising any of the raw power that Dick Cheney, Elliot Abrams and the neocons have amassed in the office that their parallel government uses as a nexus of evil. It is so condescending, insulting and such a slap in the face that it conjures up memories of the Dixiecrats who would spend their spare time toasting marshmallow over a burning cross and dressing like a bunch of fancy prancing faggots in cheap sheets dancing around drunk on ethanol grade pure moonshine hooch somewhere in a wooded area of peckerwood nation. It all just really conjures up memories of shit like Mandingo or some other rotten relic of the good ole boys down south of the Mason-Dixon line and their longtime traditions and debased social mores in the native habitat of the species chicken fried motherfucker americanus.

Mandingo was a shocking novel of southern repression, slavery, adultery, corruption, baby killing (a favorite of modern day Republicans if such babies are of a dark hued skin), torture (ditto) and of course enough raw bi-racial sex to virtually assure that it was universally scorned as some sort of taboo smashing stuff to be sold from under store counters where ‘decent folk’ didn’t have to see it, kind of like Naked Lunch. Anyway, Mandingo was made into one of those blaxploitation flicks that were so popular during the 70’s on the grindhouse circuit. It was a Dino DeLaurentis epic starring Perry King, Susan George (Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry) and boxer Ken Norton who was the prize buck engaging in steamy, nasty fucking with the blonde wench while hubby was out doing the nasty with the black girls. It was a real nasty piece of work that put a king sized burr up the asses of many in the deep south who were deeply offended at the all too accurate depiction of their lifestyles – it was like poor old Ned Beatty getting bent over that log and made to squeal like a pig while being bent over a lot and cornholed by Jim Bob and Jethro in the Georgia woods and it set back the image of our inbred southern cousins as much as that famous photo of Sheriff Lawrence Rainey stuffing his fat face with Red Man during the trial of the murdered civil rights workers that the movie Mississippi Burning was based on . I will never forget how viciously my grandmother fought to prevent my bad influence uncle from taking me to the drive in to see this thing, she went to the wall on this one to protect my innocence and purity and of course got played because I ended up going to see it anyway after being sworn to secrecy not to tell the truth that we didn’t go bowling that night after all.

Those were the days weren’t they? The old drive in movies that predated VCR’s, cable television and Ronald Fucking Reagan, back when things in this country were a lot closer to being ‘normal’ than in this sick era of the three second attention span, whopping sized plasma screens, the genius of Blu-ray (so the suckers can ditch their DVD collection and run out and replace it with the newest and more expensive discs much like they did the video tapes), the poisonous allure of the cult of celebrity and a fearful, dumbed down populace who things that Arab terrorists lurk under every bed and that they can one day all be millionaires like Donald Trump. Sigh, I have many fond memories of the good old drive ins from when we popped popcorn in a pan on the stove and mixed it with butter in brown paper grocery bags that were coated with grease and took a cooler full of our own drinks since my dad would never spring for any of the concession stand food especially those little orange shaped sippy things that were advertised before the previews. He would always take us to those great all night Clint Eastwood western marathons where it was The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (still the best western ever in my opinion), Hang ‘Em High, A Fistful Of Dollars and For A Few Dollars More.

Once I was in High School when we had our own cars and began to take girls out to the drive ins to make out and if lucky to round third base for a headfirst dive for home just like in Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” which of course rarely ever happened to most and resulted in many false stories that would paint the dates in a less than flattering manner lest any stature be lost with the boys. I certainly never had any luck getting laid at the drive-in, during my first date I was left with a serious case of blue balls during Saturday Night Fever and the closest that I ever came to actually having sex was with a pleasingly plump date that resulted in an exchange of a three fingered clitoral massage under the steering wheel (my fucking wrist hurt for a week or so) and a dry hand job in the cockpit of a Chevy Sprint during the break between Red Heat and Invasion U.S.A. and that is the closest thing to sex that I had a drive in. Why am I telling you this you ask? Christ fucking knows but the Mandingo thing stirred other memories related to the American institution that is the drive-in theater.

Post High School, my hooligan friends and I typically used the drive ins for partying, loading the car up with pot and alcohol and then parking towards the back out of the range of the scrutiny of more respectable folks who were actually there to watch the movie instead of getting stoned as the bejesus since most of us still lived in the parent’s basements and couldn’t do such things there. The marijuana smoke would roll out the windows in clouds which may have set off some alarms about the dopers in the midst of family moviegoers and that was largely why we parked in the back, besides, it was far easier to get out to take a piss rather than having to schlep a bursting bladder all the way to the concession stands and wait in line at the urinals. This was a setup that worked reasonably well until one of my friends who we called Buzz for the obvious reason that he was constantly stoned fuck up who made Jeff Spicoli look like a valedictorian drunkenly stumbled into a speaker cord and tore out some dude’s window which then resulted in him getting the living shit kicked out of him and all of us having to flee before the cops came and found a carload full of underage drinkers with enough dope and drugs to give even the “mobile narcotics lab” in Hunter S. Thompson’s trunk in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas a run for the money. Buzz was something, a true delinquent whose greatest contribution to society was his astonishing record of deliberately running 65 red lights in a row without getting caught by the cops and having his license suspended – he was truly proud of this, a rebel without a clue. Last I ever heard of Buzz he had stolen a car to make a pilgrimage to the 1984 Olympics (minus the Russians) in Los Angeles, drunkenly ran into a fence and spent the duration of the games in the local hoosegow. He may still be there for all I know..

But I Digress…..

The entire deal with floating the suggestion that Obama would potentially be welcomed as the houseboy on the Clinton restoration ticket is yet more of the rank, cowardly and dealt from the bottom of the deck racism that has allowed ‘the monster’ to dupe the elite media into the notion that she is once again the one in control and Obama should be happy to sit in the back of the bus lest he be run over it. The Clinton surrogate’s sleazy innuendos about cocaine use, Jesse Jackson and all of that other happy horseshit screams “NIGGER NIGGER” in the same manner as scrotumface Imus and his “nappy headed ho’s” did and is more of the usual sewage from the consorts of Dick Morris and James Carville (the Democrat whore who sleeps with the Republican whore, God does America love these sordid and fucked up family dramas) that is being belched up through the garbage disposal on that ballyhooed kitchen sink. The Clintons are nothing more than upwardly mobile peckerwood trash now ready to reoccupy Washington like some surreal version of the Clampetts in a sequel destined for smash hit status in Idiot Nation.

It fits in though with the entire covert Muslim storyline too, just like all that bullshit about Tony Rezko that the Clintonites and the right-wingers have been pounding the call in shows with while failing to mention the Clinton connection to Rezko. Of course Mr. Rezko is an Arab which of course offers yet another piece of damning circumstantial evidence in the case that Barrack Obama wants to usurp the entire government to launch the Islamofascist caliphate that is intent at basing it’s operations in the West Wing. The rank hypocrisy is always there too with the Clintons, nothing is mentioned of the close friendship with Denise Rich, the wife of the Jewish arch-criminal Marc Rich that Bubba pardoned (Scooter Libby was his lawyer) and whose ties to a global network of vicious looter capitalist thugs is the stuff of Keyser Soze style legendry. The Clintons are also never held to account for all of that cocaine that Ollie North’s Iran-Contra network flew through Arkansas then they made the governor’s mansion their residence but these things aren’t something that an establishment punditry and press trifles with now that they are once again on track to be queen makers and to maintain their proper places as shills and D.C. cocktail party circuit apologists for the political prostitutes.

The electronic lynching already having commenced is about to kick into high gear and Barack Obama is being fitted for one of those nifty white jackets for the inauguration ball.

Posted on 2008/03/10, in 2008 Democratic Convention, 2008 Primaries, Barack Obama, Clinton Political Machine, Democratic Party, Hillary Clinton, Political Chicanery. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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